


"I, with a deeper instinct..."

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, Dominatrix, F/M, Married Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wax Play, plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26465863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: "A frisson of excitement passes through her as she contemplates just what his boundaries may be. And how she might break those to test new ones, and new ones after that.Eternity, she tells herself, might not be long enough at all."
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	"I, with a deeper instinct..."

**Thank you** : to the inimitable MidnightLoveStories for beta'ing this. 

* * *

“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”  
― **Anaïs Nin**

* * *

“Tell me what you want,” she says, although she already knows it.

There have been hints; hisses of delight following bites which were too deep, moans of satisfaction when bones are ground between unmeasured fingers. There have been the glimpses into his desires he had afforded her; his fingers twisting in her hair as he drives her to ecstasy, the way he likes it when she claws her delight into the flesh of his back.

She already knows, but she must hear it.

She has to be sure.

He looks up at her, from his dinner plate, and a curious grin dances across his lips. They are eating in perfectly contented silence, a lovely vintage half-finished, their honeymoon a recent and glorious memory.

The bubbling urgency of desire always simmering just below the surface of everyday life.

She’s starting to suspect it is unlikely to abate.

The dining room is calm and dark and peaceful, lit by candles and a roaring fire. And she feels like now is the perfect moment to test the shuddering boundary they have been skirting.

“What do you mean, cara mia?”

She lifts her wine glass, and sits back slightly, settling one leg across the other. She watches his eyes follow her exposed flesh, and she knows that he wants them strung around his neck like a garland.

It fills her with a heady satisfaction, and a desire for more. For more of that subjugation. For more of that restraint. For more and more and more.

She has never, until this point, considered herself greedy. But when it comes to him, she wants every last molecule of him. And whatever that may entail.

“Do you fantasize about me, Gomez?”

His fork clinks against his dinner plate, and for a moment he looks like a chastised schoolboy. She is tempted to laugh, not least of all because he has bedded most of the western hemisphere prior to his sudden and monumental whiplash commitment to matrimony.

Love can do funny things to men, most especially her husband.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “All the time.”

“Tell me about them,” she says, lifting her glass to her lips.

“Here?”

He swallows, sets his napkin in his lap.

She looks down at the white linen, and then up at his face. If ever there was an opportunity to test her hypothesis, now seems as good a time as any.

She’s done this of course, before, with men who were purposeful and fun and casual. And she doesn’t for a minute think that Gomez hasn’t been tied up – and much more - by women far more worldly than even she. She’s not naïve enough to entertain the idea that he hasn’t indulged in this kind of carnality before.

But she wants him to know that he has finally found the one woman who will likely have no boundaries at all.

Convenient that he married her, then, she thinks.

She feels though, that if she goes down this path now – if she steers them both down it – this will become the least amateur commitment to conjugal bliss that has ever existed.

“Move that, now.”

She lifts her eyes from the offending serviette to his dark, unreadable face.

“Tish?”

She merely looks at him and raises a brow.

His hand hesitates for a moment, his wedding ring catching the glisten of the fire, before he does as he’s asked and sets it beside his plate.

“Good boy.”

He practically shudders, and it sends a frisson of delight through her body which pools, languorous and longing, in her belly.

“I did ask you a question,” she sets her wine glass down.

He takes a sip of his own wine, clears his throat, and then strikes up a cigar before he looks at her.

“I can barely concentrate for dreaming about making love to you all the time,” he says softly, as if that is the only truth he harbours.

She motions with her hand to encourage him to continue.

“Tish – I…”

She leaves no room for hesitation, or ambiguity, and one look urges him to continue.

“I fantasize about you, on your knees,” he says quickly, and takes a sip of his wine as if washing his mouth out.

She nods, showing him that none of that horrifies her. If anything, it makes her want him.

Right here, on his lovely ancestral dining table with the Italian carving and the high-backed chairs that she loves.

But that was not her initial goal, and she’s rarely distracted from her goals.

“Those are all very lovely,” she tilts her head to the side, and then hardens her face. “They’re also prosaic, and not at all surprising.”

He bristles for a moment.

“Excuse me?”

“I know all of those things,” she says softly, and sits back. “It’s the other things I want to know, the things you aren’t sure you should tell me. However, you should tell me darling. Because Gomez, I always get what I want.”

He looks at her, as if he’s seeing her for the first time. She isn’t surprised; he may well be liberal, but old habits of nobles oblige die hard. If he thinks her too delicate for frank conversation, she wants to put that to bed very quickly.

He smiles, though it betrays his lingering discomfort.

She sits back, and toys with the split of her dress, and she feels his eyes watching her fingers dancing on the hem. She lets her legs fall open just a little and, even at the mere suggestions, his breathing picks up pace.

It’s a delight.

“Tell me,” she says, one more time, and then leans forward and watches him battle internally with those delightful demons she wants to coax out to play.

“I…” he hesitates, then looks her in the eye. “I…”

His words fail him, and she hesitates for a moment before lowering her voice, _sotto._

She realizes - a little more slowly than she is pleased about – that he needs her to draw the lines, set the frontier.

She is more than happy to oblige.

“You want me to…” she stands, and he is watching her as if she is a dangerous animal, a species which is both wonderful and deadly.

That is exactly the response she wants.

She walks behind his chair, trailing her fingers over his shoulder, and placing both hands on them as she bends down, brings her mouth level with his ear.

“Deny you,” she says, cracking the tension with the least terrifying of his needs.

He says nothing.

And it feels like a magnificent role-reversal; his silence is hard-earned, and unusual in the extreme.

He does nod though, wordless – afraid, even.

There is something more intimate in this than anything they have shared before, and that is a deeply moving revelation, she supposes, for both of them.

There will be time to ruminate on that later – they do have eternity, after all – but right now she is loathed to lose the moment in the midst of emotional revelations.

She squeezes his shoulders, before sliding her fingers to the knot of his tie and undoing it. The silk is Paisley patterned, luscious red and black silk, that he bought in Rome on their honeymoon. It feels lovely under her near-trembling fingers, but she makes quick work of the Kelvin, and then pulls it from the crisp, rasping cotton of his collar.

“You want me to control you,” she moves round in front of him, and takes in the sight of him for a moment.

There is awe on his face, and trepidation and hard, unbridled desire.

It isn’t a question, but he nods anyway and swallows.

And, smiling, she lifts her skirt and steps over, gracefully straddling his thighs.

He groans as she rests her weight on him, deliberately tilting her pelvis into the hard bulge of his groin.

“Hurt you,” she begins winding the tie around his wrist, and then stands again, pulling it so it draws his hand behind him.

The narrowness of the back of the chair means she can draw his wrists together. It will put some stress on his arms, and he will have to keep his back extremely straight to accommodate the position, but she is willing to bet he will like the lingering burn of pain as his hands begin to numb. More than that though, the itching agony of being restrained, of not being able to touch her, will make him furious with lust.

“Restrain you,” she continues, knotting the tie and coming to stand in front of him again.

“Morticia…” he hisses his first words in minutes, and every desperate note feels like the validation she’s been looking for since the moment she took this risk.

“Husband?”

He literally twitches and pulls against the bonds she’s tied so expertly behind his back.

“Tish I –“

“Want me to deny you, silence you, tease you and hurt you, and torture you…and when you can’t handle it anymore,” she reaches behind her back and unzips her own dress and shrugs it down her shoulders, letting it slip from her body. 

He is watching her as if he can do nothing else, as if to take his eyes away will be to commit a cardinal sin. The force of his desire is almost tangible.

“You look incredible,” he breathes, his eyes devouring each inch of her tightly corseted body, her stockinged legs.

For a moment, his eyes desperately linger on the black satin of her panties, with a level of lecherous abandon that should make her blush but does nothing other than drive her.

“You want me to grant you every inch of my body, and my person,” she leans in, lowering her voice to a whisper – barely audible over the crackle of the fire and the thick tension – “And maybe even fuck you.”

He moans, deep and hard in the back of his throat.

“Morticia…”

“Oui?” She asks, fingers reaching down to unbutton his shirt, pulling it away from his chest and bunching it at his sides with his lovely blazer.

“Shouldn’t we move this upstairs?”

She pushes his half-eaten dinner away, and perching her rear against the table, kicks her dress to the side with one high-heeled foot.

“No,” she says simply. “Because you like the prospect of being caught, and so do I.”

If he’s humiliated, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he grins.

“Some things are always for the bedroom –“

“Like what?” He interrupts.

“Keen to discuss it now, are we?” She says, voice cold and measured.

His eyes widen.

“I just-“

“We will finish this conversation when I have taken what I want,” she says gently. “And only when I am satisfied. Is that clear?”

He nods, too eagerly, and she wishes she had a more instant means of punishing him.

But she will have to improvise.

She turns her body to reach for the elaborate candelabra in the middle of the table, each branch a wistful carving of the last days of Sodom and Gomorrah and plucks one of the red candles from it.

The stem is soft, the wax on top molten.

The contrast will be pretty.

He deduces her intention almost instantly as she turns back, and growls through clenched teeth. She takes that as permission.

“If you need me to stop –“

“Berlin,” he grits out, tensing his muscles, preparing himself in a way that makes him look like a caged, roaring beast.

He’s more than done this before.

It makes her want to throw the candle aside and patience to the wind and devour him.

But she isn’t about to ruin the prolonged satisfaction she knows it will bring about for them.

“Berlin,” she nods, straddling his thighs, and deliberately grinding her satin panties down onto the straining wool of his groin.

She pushes herself back a little, using one hand on his chest for leverage, and trails her tongue between his pectoral muscles.

“You’re trembling,” she notes, looking into his eyes.

He nods, knowing better than to speak.

Her husband is a quick study in what she likes; and she loves him for it.

Then they both watch, morbidly fascinated, as she tips the red candle and the wax drips in three little splashes onto the skin she has just cooled, hissing as it comes in to contact with his flesh.

The howl he emits is unexpected and terrifying and fascinating, and she watches as the sinews in his neck and jaw tense and he curls his body out, against hers, the pain gripping him for a fraction of a second.

The bulge in his trousers hardens, brushing against her.

“You’re very aroused,” she says, adopting an innocence of tone which is deliberately wicked.

“Are you not?” He bites back.

Brave.

She cocks an eyebrow and merely looks at him, then casually tips the wax on to his nipple.

He howls again, the same rippling hardness which passes into him like a current of electricity as he encounters pain. She is reminded of the painting of Dante and Virgil that they saw in the Musee d’Orsay on their honeymoon; the sinuous bodies contorted by agony, and suffering, and sheer desperation.

The raw power of bodies at their very limits.

A frisson of excitement passes through her as she contemplates just what his boundaries may be. And how she might break those to test new ones, and new ones after that.

Eternity, she tells herself, might not be long enough at all.

Satisfied he has learned his lesson; she cups his face in her free hand and kisses him. His tongue presses hard against her lips, forcing into her mouth, searching and urgent and desperate. It is artless and clashing; the kind of kiss that will be the real marker of their passion in the future: violent, volatile, hungry.

The candle still in one hand, she steadies it against his shoulder and pushes her own panties to the side and touches herself, mainly to relieve the painful tension which is gathering in her own body. 

It’s not a miscalculation, but she doesn’t expect him to give in so easily and when he looks down, he moans, almost miserably.

It makes her smile.

“Let me taste you,” he suddenly pleads, demanding, as he pulls away from the kiss.

“No.”

She lets the candle loosen in her fingers, where it trickles like water down the curve of his shoulder and traces into the dip of his collar bone.

“Morticia!”

His accent is thick and breathy, and she wants to ask him to recite Garcia-Marquez to her, while he pushes her up against the table and pounds into her mindlessly.

So instead she withdraws her fingers and satisfies herself by trailing her own wetness across his lips, where he sucks her fingers into his mouth and groans mindlessly as he gets the taste he so impertinently demanded.

“Thank you,” he whispers as she takes them from his mouth and stands.

She pauses for a moment to admire him, to burn this wildly erotic image into her mind forever. The first time he is truly and utterly hers, without the smallest exception; his chest glistening and heaving, red wax cracking and marring his delicious skin, his eyes massive and black with nothing but the desire for her. The glow from the fire, like hell but infinitely more torturous.

This is everything she has wanted, and all she could have hoped for.

“I always get what I want,” she says, delicate and precious with the truth of it.

He smiles, and there is such love in it that it makes her want to weep.

“Always.”

She pushes her own panties down with one hand, and he watches as she wriggles them down over her thighs and pushes them away with her high-heeled foot.

He licks his lips, lecherous and beautiful and so desperate.

His Cheshire-grin is enough to make her decide he is far too confident about her next course of action, and she truly doesn’t want that for him. It’s too predictable.

So instead she drops to her knees and, balancing the candle against the leg of the chair, begins to unbutton his fly. He pushes his hips up to aid her removal of both his trousers and underwear.

“Always the gentleman,” she says, eyeing up his jutting erection and then looking up at his face.

The grin has totally disappeared and there is hard, unabashed lust in its place. He is biting his lip in anticipation.

“Do you fantasize about this all the time?” She wonders aloud, “Like all men?”

“I am not like all men,” he murmurs.

She’s done this plenty of times for him – for her too – but there’s something distractingly powerful about doing it when he can do nothing but watch, and pray, and hope she behaves herself.

She reaches out and grips the base of his cock hard, and he jerks upwards. It is her turn to grin as she licks from the base to the tip, taking him in her mouth for a moment before looking up.

“Just like all men.”

Her free hand reaches for the candle, and she brings it up to level with his thigh. He roars his panic, and she drips the wax just short of the delicate skin between his thigh and groin.

He cries out his abasement into the hard heat of the room.

“Cara mia, please…” he begs.

“Not like all men,” she says, conversationally, closing her mouth around his cock again and working him until he is writhing beneath her. She can feel the tension in his thighs, in the hard gusts of breath he is failing woefully to control. She sucks him until he’s gasping, and pleading, and saying her name like the Pater Noster.

Worship, all she has ever wanted. Everything she deserves.

“I’m going to come,” he growls.

“Not yet,” she says, stopping suddenly, and tilting the candle onto the delicate skin of his lower abdomen.

“You will kill me,” he pants, pulling against his bonds like a wild animal.

She is close to the edge, having barely been touched, and his fury is unflinchingly erotic. She drops the candle, and it extinguishes on contact with the floor.

“Not just yet,” she says gently, standing and walking behind him. “Gomez, you have so much to learn. So much more to do for me, before you shed this mortal coil. And even in death, you will be my slave.”

“Yes,” he breathes, a vow, desperate and urgent.

It makes her smile as she begins untying the knot in his tie, and his hands drop free.

He doesn’t move.

A quick study.

“You’re going to stand,” she says. “And lie on the table.”

He jumps to his feet and pushes the plates away – one so enthusiastically that it shatters after it plunges to the floor - and climbs onto the table and lies flat on his back, his legs hanging off the edge.

She climbs up too – it’s relatively low and she manages it with a delicate grace she is quietly pleased with – and, using his chest for leverage, lowers herself onto him painfully slowly, inch by miraculous inch, until that howl of pain erupts from him again, deep and unsettling and rich with promise.

He is so hard it almost hurts.

“And I am going to do this,” she moves up slowly, reversing her course as he looks on, helpless and painfully desperate. “Until you are begging for release.”

And he watches her, silent, as she gets lost in the rhythm of pursuing her own satisfaction.

She does not miss the fact that he is concentrated entirely on her, his own needs a secondary concern to hers. His prowess is remarkable, considering.

She reminds herself to commend him on it later.

She looks down at him as he watches her, with the kind of adoration she isn’t sure even she deserves under any circumstances.

“Not like all men,” she says softly, taking his diligently inactive hand, curled into a tight fist, from his side and placing it on her breast.

He takes it for the instruction it is, delivering a fraction of the pain she has inflicted on him with a twist of a hardened nipple. She moans at the gesture, and nods.

He does it again, and his other hand moves to find her clit and he begins making small circles against the aching bundle of nerves in the space between their bodies. He already knows her well enough to apply just the right pressure to just the right spot.

She throws her head back, wild with abandon, as he does things to her body she never imagined any man could do all at once and with such skill. It is as if he was carved, created from dust, just for her satisfaction.

That knowledge comes with awesome power, one she will never take for granted.

She comes hard and agonizingly, the shudder of an orgasm ripping through her pelvis and her gut and into every nerve ending – raw with need – in her body.

The kind of orgasm which has always been just tantalizingly out of reach.

She cries, desperate and wanton and so deliciously pleased. And slows her movements down to focus on him.

His jaw is tense, his eyes jealous with lust.

“Can I-“ He bites, hands still diligently on her body.

“Oui mon cher.”

And he does, as she rocks slowly over him.

She watches every single moment of it; that lovely grasping tension, that hard pain that shudders through him, followed by deep pleasure as his orgasm forces a howl of delight from his throat.

It is the singularly most enjoyable thing she has ever had the pleasure of witnessing, and she knows it for what it is; intense, unexplainable desire, inarticulate with love.

She lies on top of him, wordless, and he curls his arms around her body and holds her there, and presses kisses to her hair and does not speak, because words are no longer necessary.

-0-

Three days later their honeymoon – extended as it was – officially draws to a close. He has a meeting in the city, and he has already left by the time she awakes.

She finds his side of the bed made, neatly – with no indication of the messy, emotional night of love-making prior – when she finally prizes her eyes open. On his pillow, there is a not insubstantial box, and on it a letter with her name written in his looping, elaborate scrawl. She takes her time opening the rich vellum envelope, to reveal a single page of his private stationery.

It simply says ‘Thank you. G’ on it.

Her curiosity is piqued, and she pulls the box towards her and using the key, twists it open, and lifts the lid.

Each item is a jigsaw piece, and each one makes her smile of delight grow as she recognizes it for what it is.

A ball and chain.

Blueprints of a large chamber in the dungeons.

A conveniently signed, and temptingly blank, cheque book.

A riding crop.

And the worn stub of a red dinner candle.

It’s her first project as the Mistress of the house.


End file.
